Some things that I miss

Wallace: It was like, I really sort of felt like my life was over at twenty-seven or twenty-eight. And I didn't want to feel it.
And so I would do all kinds of things: I would drink real heavy, I would like (expletive) strangers. Oh God--or, then, for two weeks I wouldn't drink, and I'd run ten miles every morning. You know, that kind of desperate, like very American, "I will fix this somehow, by taking radical action."

I've decided that I'll keep posting my favorite parts from this book over the next few weeks. Anyhow, I already blogged about this, it pretty much canvassed a time in my own mid-twenties when it suddenly seemed like my life was over, like all sorts of ships had left for the New World, and I was some poor orphan kid standing at the dock waving goodbye. And that's a strange way to feel when you are, by today's standards, still so very young. I think it had something to do with living in a place that was extremely cold and working at a business school, where you have this idea that everyone is pretty much just out for themselves and trying to cash in. It's not like the place where I work now where everyone has big plans to shore up that bit of trouble we've been having in the Middle East and get everyone back to holding hands and singing songs.

Here is an interesting article about writing fiction. fiction
I think that the point is well taken. Primarily because it's a point I've espoused numerous times while getting my own degree in creative writing. If I had a dollar for every time someone bitched about taking a literature class while getting a degree in creative writing I'd be a rich man. Guess what? People who are getting MFA's who whine about having to take lit. classes are pretty much just whining because they are lazy and because they aren't writing enough. If they had more time, they'd just waste it watching television or f-ing around on facebook. I know, I am one of those people. I realize I'm speaking to a very small audience here. However, even if you didn't get an MFA imagine how ridiculous it would sound to you, if one of your colleagues refused to learn a task by observing someone else doing it well, but insisted instead that they'd rather learn by feel. It's asinine. That being said, I'm totally in these peoples camps because it's bad enough that those of us who won't end up as writers anyhow spend all day not writing of our own volition, it pisses us off even more when it's someone else's volition. Even if that volition involves reading books. You know, the sort of things writers do.

I was also struck by the latter portion of the quote when Wallace talks about this very American, I can fix it right now craze. Hello, six million diet ads.

Melt your fat away with the heat boxer. This belt wraps around your waist and delivers short bursts of heat in excess of the full heat of the sun. By the time you sit up you'll be so dehydrated, read skinny, you won't even care if you don't look better.

Take this pill and you'll be skinny. Sure you may also grow wings and start having an intimate relationship with your trash can who may now look like Oscar the Grouch. Oh, and you may also suffer kidney failure or something, but who cares, you'll be skinnier.

Try out my new diet. It's called the Ramadan, no food or water from sunup till sundown. Plus, if someone accuses you of being anorexic you can just claim that it's for religious reasons. Genius.

Come in to our office and we'll slice the pounds away. That's right, don't change a thing, we'll change you from the outside in. These knives can cut right through a penny or rail ties and now we'll use them to cut through your fat. Note: Bring bandages.

The point is, that like most things in life, correcting your diet, or your state of mind don't really happen with epiphanies. It happens in a myriad of small little ways that wind up amounting to something more. But we're always waiting for that next big thing. And I'm afraid that if we, I, stay that way, that I'll find myself standing on that same lonely dock from sunup until sundown, waiting for the sight of ships in the distance, waiting.

Fiction (Cont).

Anyhow, as we approached the top of an idyllic hill—like, hills alive with sound of music stuff—we found ourselves in a small vineyard, boxed in by a low stone wall. Ivy grew at manicured intervals along the stones. I can see the metaphoric value in describing the myriad of ways in which the ivy is connected to itself, and the wall. The area is primarily renowned for Pinot Noir.

We were holding hands at this point. The valley is bordered by the Santa Ynez and San Rafael Mountains, which act as conduits for the cool ocean air, air that keeps you feeling pleasant even on the mordantly warm, dry days. The heat was palpable but bright and clean.

As we reached the precipice on that sun splashed perfect day, hands held tightly, shoes, not muddy in the slightest, perfect grip, a medium sized brown dog of indeterminate species started barking at us.

We’re not talking cereberus here. No flames flowed forth, but the thing was clearly malfeasant. I remember this distinctly. It is as clear in my head now as your face is. The hairs on the dog’s neck rose—hackles, I believe, is the proper term—and his lips parted, pink gums, long white canines. Lupine, almost.

No. Don’t turn, please. The profile is pretty exquisite.

Well, the dog bared his teeth, snarled or growled, my memory is unclear, and then he lunged towards us. Strange, that we automatically assumed the dog was a male. I suppose it’s a bit of anthropomorphism. The tendons in his legs were sharply visible as he leapt. They glistened in the way of wet sand being struck by the sun between waves. I only learned the gender of the animal from the newspaper stories that followed. I did not condone his killing. It was sheer animal instinct. You can’t condemn an animal for behaving like an animal.